Ever Fallen in Love (With Someone You Shouldn't've)
by drollicpixie
Summary: Violet had never blamed him for anything he did, no matter how sick, how wrong. She was the only person who saw him through rose-colored glasses. A perfect boy. A perfect brother. Incest. Violet/Tate. Rated M.
1. Prologue

A/N – This is the first of a series. Following chapters will not be sequential though they will all tie in together.

Tate and Violet are brother and sister, living, in death, in the Murder House. This it the story of their lives there, how they came to be, and what they will become.

Warning: Incest – if you don't like it, that's totally cool, just don't read, okay?

Tate & Violet, Rated – M

Disclaimer – I do not own American Horror Story. Only the idea for this fic is mine. Title comes from the song by The Buzzcocks.

* * *

_"...and that they hadn't heard us call; still did not hear us, calling them out of those rooms where they went to be alone for all time, alone in suicide, which is deeper than death, and where we will never find the pieces to put them back together." - The Virgin Suicides (Suicide Underground)_

**Prologue**

"Wake up, big brother," she whispered in his ear, voice soft, breath warm.

"Shut up," he grumbled back at her, swatting the air her face had inhabited as she laughed, leaning away from his hand.

"Mother's downstairs."

He groaned, "Why?"

She lifted a shoulder, cocked her head. Nothing outwardly bothered Violet. Not like it annoyed the fuck out him. The thought of, the mere mention, of the woman who birthed them, made his blood boil. "She wants to talk?" His sister suggested. "Or to coo over her lost babies?" Grinning wickedly she theorized, "Maybe the bitch has cancer and is going to die a slow death."

"Yeah," he glared up at the ceiling, "like we were ever that lucky. She'll probably live to be a-fucking-hundred years old and then she'll manage to die in this house and we'll be stuck with her rotting southern corpse for all eternity."

"I hate her," Violet breathed. "What you did," she nodded, "she made you. She's the reason we're here."

"Yeah," he repeated, closing his eyes, blond head nudging her thigh as she perched on the edge of the mattress. Violet had never blamed him for anything he did, no matter how sick, how wrong. She was the only person who saw him through rose-colored glasses. A perfect boy. A perfect brother. "But what about you?"

"I blame her for that too," she told him, picking a thread from the quilt draped across his waist. They'd had this conversation before. A hundred times. It bored her.

"For you fucking offing yourself with an entire bottle of her Valium?"

Her reply was a hiss.

Violet moved as if to get up but her brother stopped her, one clawed fist around her fragile wrist, gripping her furiously.

He stretched like a cat, not letting her go, "You could have gotten away from here, from her, you know."

"Yeah, maybe I could've," she shrugged, glaring down at him. "Or maybe you just shouldn't have shot up those kids at Westfield and got yourself pumped full of bullets, fucker." His onyx eyes burned a hole through her. "You left me alone with the wicked witch. What did you think would happen? I'd live happily ever after?" Her free palm brushed his naked shoulder, "Without you?"

Face still twisted with anger she turned, climbing atop him, sitting on his stomach, sliding a leg down either side of his torso.

* * *

Tate knew what she liked, what she craved. He bucked his hips upwards while snatching her other wrist, guiding her body back to rest on his straining dick. Her pussy burned him through his threadbare boxers, babydoll dress riding up her thighs, the buttons down the front already undone to her waist, tattered cardigan slipping from her slight shoulders.

Violet wasn't much for clothes. Not in life. Not in death. And it was one of the things he loved most about her. She just didn't give a fuck about anything normal girls cared about. She liked black roses instead of red. Nirvana, grunge, and seedy clubs instead of bubblegum pop music and the mall. Doc Marten's, record shops, cheap smokes, shitty skunk weed, plastic handles of vodka made in some-shit-town Jersey.

His sister was the only person in the world, the entire fucking universe, that he could stand to be around. That he didn't want to throttle, garrote, disembowel. Though sometimes she slit his fucking throat, just to watch him die, to smile down at him, hands slathered in his blood. He'd wake up hard, his cock in her mouth, and knew she only did it out of love. That was just _them_.

* * *

She was breathing hard, rocking against him, as he moved to clutch her wrists in one hand, the other wrapping around her waist, lifting her small body, and flipping, rolling, her onto her back.

"Tate," she whined as he stretched her arms above her, pulling, straining her muscles to the edge of pain.

"Violet," he breathed against her full, parted lips.

"What about…?"

"Fuck her."

"I thought you were going to fuck me," she replied huskily, eyes glassy, as her hips undulated beneath him.

Tate's hand trailed up her inner thigh, tracing patterns on the heated flesh. "Fuck. When you talk like that," but she cut him off with a kiss. Mouth hot, tongue darting past his lips, searching the back of his teeth.

Violet shifted, tugged, managed to free one of her hands. She smirked in triumph as her fingers snaked along the weak elastic of her brother's underwear, slipping inside to grasp his raging erection. "Mmmm," she purred.

"Yeah." His lips were on her throat, her collarbone. His fingers inside of her, pumping, stroking, coaxing, soaked with her need.

"Off," his sister demanded of his boxers as he wiggled, trying, with the aid of her free hand, to shimmy out of them. She giggled, eyes closed in delight, pelvis rising up off of the bed, making his mouth water at the thought of her sweet, bare, pink cunt.

"Tate? Violet?" Their mother's voice rang out. Her brother groaned, infuriated.

"Go away!"

"That doesn't work on the living," his sister mumbled into the damp heated skin of his neck, as he released her other hand. Her fingers swept into his hair, nails tracing along his scalp, digging into the flesh, making his spine stretch, his muscles go taut, before dragging down his bare back leaving a map of red, bloody scratches.

And then she was there, in the room, a hand at her throat, her vintage Chanel purse hanging from the crook of an elbow. There was a strangled gasp, before, "You dirty, filthy, little children," her tone was cold, seething. "You were always rotten, both of you," she hissed. "Touching one another, cooing and whispering from the time you were in diapers. I tried to stop you, to curb your disgusting urges for one another. But you wouldn't be stopped, no," her tone was growing in volume, "and look where you ended up. Dead!"

Tate stared down into the lighter eyes of his sister, his jaw clenched, rage over taking his dark, angelic visage. "What do you want?" He ground out. Violet simply peered over his back, studying her mother with the same absent, indifferent, expression she had used throughout her life.

After a long pause where Constance waited, hoped, they would break apart, at least for her sake, if not the sake of propriety, of decency, _of morality_, she replied, "The house has been sold."

"We know," her daughter told her. "The husband's a shrink," her gaze returned, adoringly, to her brother above her, hand slipping from between their bodies to brush sweat soaked curls away from his forehead. "Tate's going to see him, get the help he needs," she paused, "for his problem." The boy in question stared lovingly down at Violet, mouth smiling, utterly devoted to her.

"Oh," Constance began haughtily, "your brother is the one who needs help, is he? Young lady, you seduced that boy. Your own brother. He always took care of you, from the time you were born, and how do you repay him? By casting him into a world of sin with you. Encouraging him to do unspeakable acts."

"Are you referring to the fact that I fuck my sister, Mother? Or the fifteen kids I murdered?" He asked over his shoulder, pinning her in place with his black gaze.

The mention of it had Violet squirming. Her warm, wet, little cunt sliding against his cock driving Tate to a point of merciless agony. It was bliss.

Constance threw her arms up in exasperation, "I wash my hands of the both of you. You've made your beds, now you'll have to lie in them!"

"Oh god," Violet moaned, "I want to." Tate grinned, thrust his hips into the cradle of her thighs, and dipped his lips down to taste her.

Their mother whirled from the room, disappearing with a huff, a curse, and a wafting cloud of expensive perfume.

"My little seductress," he whispered dirtily, sliding into her ever wet channel.

"My murderer," she replied, head tipped back, exposing her neck, covered in bruises. His lips, his hands, had made a purple and black canvas of her the night before. Every night. For nearly a decade. His sister. His perfect little girl.

He grunted, lifted her thigh, and surged forward mercilessly, hitting a soft, warm barrier, her womb, making her shudder violently.

"Fuck."

Tate hummed his pleasure against her breast, did it again.


	2. Summer Vacation, 1987

Warning: Incest – if you don't like it, that's totally cool, just don't read, okay? Inappropriate child behavior. Suggestions of abuse. (I got some background, psych, behavior information for this chapter online before writing). This is probably just totally fucked up. But I like how the chapter turned out anyway and it sets the groundwork for future events. So again, please be warned.

Tate & Violet, Rated – M

Disclaimer – I do not own American Horror Story. Only the idea for this fic is mine.

I have a tumblr now! Check it out – drollicpixie. tumblr. com

* * *

**Summer Vacation, 1987**

"Violet," her brother whined, shifting on the chair, making it scrape. She froze, listening. Mama was passed out, drunk on half a bottle of bourbon, downstairs on the couch, but that didn't mean she couldn't spring to life in the matter of a heartbeat. And Violet would get a spanking, or worse, for tormenting her brother.

His wrists were tied behind his back, slender ankles roped to the chair legs. She wanted to, liked to, hurt him, because Constance loved him so much. Because Nora, the sad lady who lived in their basement, loved him. And Daddy, the only adult who had ever thought she was special, worthwhile, had up and left them because her mother was a cocksucker.

That's what Tate had told her at least. And while she knew he was a liar, that his sweetness was an act, he was always honest with her. Her brother was afraid of her. She was smaller, younger, but infinitely more dangerous. Because she owned him, body and soul. He craved her love more than anything else in the world and she knew it.

He was ten years old and she was nine.

* * *

"I don't want to play this game anymore, Violet," he told her, wheedling.

"Don't be a baby," she replied, eyes narrowed.

"I'm not," his lip protruded petulantly.

"You're acting like one, Tate." He huffed.

"What are you going to do?" her brother asked eventually, studying her, sounding nervous but she could never be sure with Tate. He could just be playing, acting, testing her. He did that.

* * *

He knew the game. She would torture him until he cried out or begged her to stop and she would win. If she got bored before that or ran out of flesh to mar, Tate won.

They had not been terribly creative when inventing their game and simply called it 'Torture Chair'. It was modeled off of a movie they saw late one night after Mama was in bed. One man tortured another until he told all his secrets. But Tate didn't keep secrets from his sister so she tortured him just for fun.

Violet never sat in the torture chair.

* * *

She was thinking, tapping her index finger on her chin, glancing skyward. With a sigh and a small sad smile, she said, "I think it's going to be razor blades."

Tate's breathing stuttered as he closed his eyes. His sister was an expert with razor blades, cutting his arms, his legs, tiny lines appearing along his flesh, red pooling in the dip of his elbows and around the rim of his white socks. The problem was how much he liked it; the blood letting, the blood in general. It got him excited to see it running, dripping. It would be even worse, harder for him, if Violet kissed it better. That was her favorite part. Her lips on his skin, his blood on her mouth, his body reacting. She counted those kinds of sounds as a win too, making her cackle with glee, clap her hands, and grin.

Tate liked it when Violet was happy.

* * *

She had worked him over in so many ways, with so many implements since they came up with the game. Her creativity never failed to impress him. She had used knives, Constance's metal knitting needles, poking and prodding him, making his mouth twist as he winced, held the noises he was so desperate to make in. She had burned him with matches and stabbed him with needles. She had even once sewn her initials, VL, into his chest, just above his heart, working patiently until her stitches were perfect. He had barely bleed, watching her with a stunned expression, but it hurt so bad he thought at one point that she was killing him.

Next time she pulled out the sewing kit Tate flatly refused to play. He had to put his foot down somewhere.

* * *

"Violet! Tate!" Mama was awake.

"Shit," her brother cursed, tugging at his bonds.

Violet whirled around, stashing the envelope filled with razor blades under his mattress, before rushing back to her brother. The stairs creaked, groaned. Tate had his hands free and was working on the first ankle expediently. She never tied the ropes so that he couldn't get out of them; he could get out of anything anyway. Tate was an escape artist their mother told them with a grin for her boy and a scowl for her girl.

"Quick!" she whispered, dropping to her knees to help.

"Where in damnation are you?" Constance Langdon hollered.

Neither child replied.

Tate was up and off the chair, ropes tossed to the floor of his closet. The two of them standing side by side, a unit, a pair of blond heads and innocent looks, gazing across the room with trepidation.

"Well, there you are," their mother drawled, nudging the door open with her black pump. There was a tumbler filled with brown liquid in her hand and her eyes were narrowed in suspicion. "Why was this door closed?" She looked to Violet when she said this, not Tate, even though it was his room, his door. And his idea to play 'Torture Chair'.

"We didn't want to wake you, Mama," her sweet boy, all messy curls and angelic features replied, small hand slipping behind his back to take hold of his sister's even smaller one, squeezing. The girl, beautiful but sullen, no spark or charisma, nodded dutifully.

She pointed one long finger from the hand around her glass and gazed on them balefully. "You all weren't playing doctor up here again, were you?" They shared a glance, each shook their heads. "Because I told you that was wrong. What you were doing to each other. Filthy," she spat, listing sideways.

"No, Mama," they stated in unison.

"Good," she nodded. "Now, I'm going to lie down. And I don't want to hear a goddamned peep out of either of you."

"Yes, Mama," they told her.

Constance stepped out of the doorframe, leaving it wide open, and staggered down the hall to her bed.

Violet breathed a sigh of relief. Dealing with their mother was stressful, something to be avoided whenever possible.

Her brother waited, staring at the ceiling, silent as the grave, before rushing on swift, nimble feet back to the door, pushing it to with a barely audible click.

She was smiling at him, hands rubbing themselves on her little floral dress, the full cotton skirt blooming around her coltish legs. "Torture chair?" She demanded gleefully. But Tate shook his head no. His sister pouted, stomped her foot and spun around, charging over to his bed, climbing up onto his superman sheets. Glumly her eyes cast up to his as he moved toward her, slow, watchful, more graceful than she could ever be. Mama said she was as graceful as a herd of elephants.

Tate laughed at her. "I wanna play something else."

His sister glared, frowning, arms crossed over her narrow, boney chest. "What?"

Tate liked stupid games: Battleship and Go Fish, hide and seek in the basement, shooting the tree outback with his pellet gun, stealing the neighbor's cat and skinning its tail, making it howl and hiss, before he kicked it, stomped it, to death.

He was in front of her then, observing her with interest. It was his sister's turn to squirm.

"Mama's not going to wake up for awhile," he smiled and she shrugged helplessly. "And I want to play our game," he spared a look for the chair, saw her momentary relief, excitement, before clarifying, "our other game."

"Tate, Mama said no."

"I don't give a fuck what she says." His hand was on her knee, her chapped lower lip was between her teeth.

* * *

She really was the good one. Not that anybody cared. Except maybe Tate. She was just mischievous, got into things, was too smart for her own good. Curiosity killed the cat her mother liked to tell her and Violet would think, no, that was Tate.

Violet liked cats.

* * *

"Maybe I don't want to."

Her brother leaned in conspiratorially, whispering just beside her ear, "Liar. You always want to, Violet."

She shifted backward on the mattress, not agreeing, but making room, and watched his grin turn wicked.

Tate climbed up on the bed, not beside her, but on top of her, his hands on her waist, pulling her skirt up. Violet opened her legs a little wider to accommodate him as she reclined, laying on her back. "See?" His impossibly dark eyes flickered with delight, "You like playing 'Daddy and the Maid' just as much as I do. So say it." She shook her head, more to make him angry than anything else. Tate always got his way. It wasn't fair.

"Say it, Violet," he hissed between his teeth, fingers dancing across her thigh, touching the elastic edge of her pink cotton panties. When she still said nothing he pinched her leg brutally, making her wince, mouth dropping open on a silent gasp.

Tate immediately appeared contrite, shamed, guilty over hurting her. But he would do it again and worse if he didn't get what he wanted.

As an apology he leaned down and kissed her bottom lip, tenderly stroked her bruised and burning flesh.

"You made me do that, Violet," he breathed. "I didn't want to."

She nodded and he kissed her again.

Tate loved kissing Violet, her soft, plaint lips against his firmer, more demanding ones. He could kiss her all day but that was just the beginning of the game, he wanted to get on with it. Get to the good stuff.

"Say it," he repeated a final time as he lifted his head up, extricating his mouth, gazing at her hungrily.

With a sigh Violet gave in. Like he knew she would. Like she always did. Because she loved him so completely that she could never deny him anything he really wanted.

Wetting her mouth she hushed, "Please, Mr. Langdon," voice breathy and begging how he liked, hazel eyes big and round, "I want you. I need you."

And her brother beamed down at her.

A/N - Tate and Violet do not/are not engaging in sex in this scene. It's more a game/simulation of sex. They do not (as of this time) have sex. They are far too young. Just to clear up any possible confusion.


	3. Spring, 1994

Warning: Incest – if you don't like it, that's totally cool, just don't read, okay? Minor Dub-Con. Rapey vibes(?). I just couldn't get this chapter quite right. I may come back at some point and rework it. But it was time to move on.

Tate & Violet, Rated – M

Disclaimer – I do not own American Horror Story. Only the idea for this fic is mine.

I have a tumblr now! Check it out – drollicpixie. tumblr. com

* * *

"Do you want to play Scrabble?" She scoffed, refusing to look at him even though he was right in front of her, pacing. "Okay, chess?" He grinned, "I'll even let you win."

"No." His sister scowled at the floor, his busted black chucks. She hadn't needed him to let her win since she was ten years old; Tate didn't have a head for chess. He was too rash. Everything was impulse and reaction for her brother. It was what had always gotten him, them, into trouble. She sighed, tired again. Always so tired.

He glared. Her attitude was grating on him.

"Fuck, Violet. Why have you been such a bitch lately?" He huffed, sick of it, of her behavior. What was the point of being dead, together, if she was going to practically ignore him? The only time she acknowledged his existence was at night, in the dark, tucked into his side, his arms around her. But he wanted more. A lot more. And she was refusing him. Not so much in words but in her actions. And Violet did not refuse him. It just didn't happen. Tate did not handle rejection, seeming or otherwise, well. "Fine," he stepped around the couch, "if you're going to be like this then I'll go to the basement and..."

"Spend time with Mommy number two?" she interrupted, voice clipped, shoulders stiff.

Tate's eyes narrowed, "What?"

"Nothing," she dismissed him with a wave of her hand. His sister had never been dismissive of him, always hanging on his every word, every whim. Or at least she gave the appearance of doing so. And she wanted him to fucking leave. What the fuck was happening? "Do whatever the fuck you want. Lift that fucking beaded gown and slide underneath. Get what it is you've really been missing, needing, all these years from Mommy Dearest."

Before he could think about it, register what he was doing, he had taken two long strides coming up behind Violet. Her hair, hanging in a long silken wave, wrapped so easily, so quickly around his wrist, his forearm, and he tugged, yanking her head back violently so that it knocked against the back of the brown velvet sofa. "What the fuck did you say?"

"You heard me," she told him, gaze passive as always, making him crazy, driving him over the edge.

"Fucking bitch," he ground out, wrenching his arm back further, harder.

Her eyes were cold, like steel, "What's the problem, Tate? Can't get it up unless little sis is there? Need me to warm you up?" She smirked nastily up at him. He fucking hated, loved, that mean little smirk. "Or maybe you need me to warm her up? Sad, spooky little boys don't do it for Nora? I always was the one with the balls of the two of us. If it weren't for me you'd have died a virgin, jerking off in your room until you came blood, thinking about me wet in the shower." Violet was riling him up, working him, making him angry on purpose. If her brother wanted to be a piece of shit, she would treat him like one.

"You're all I wanted!" He exploded, face twisting into a mask of anger, of betrayal.

"I'm all you had!" Violet returned just as furiously. Her ire could never match his, not for violence or intensity, but it spoke volumes, slashed him like razors, tore him open. It was just as terrible. Maybe worse. No one could hurt Tate aside from his sister and he despised the reminder. But what she said pricked at his heart. Something told him to hold back his anger as he mulled over her words.

There was a long pause, silence descending outside of their heavy, unneeded, breathing. Finally, expression somewhere between fury, revulsion, and absolute abject melancholy, Tate challenged, "Is that what you really think?"

Her eyes were closed as she bit her lip, hair still straining against her scalp. She looked like she might cry. But Violet never cried. She _was_ the strong one. The one who defended him from Constance, from the filthy horror show outside their small cocoon of two. Even though she was the smaller, the younger. Even though he liked to pretend that he was in charge, that he was the protector. And she had always let him.

Violet had stopped being a meek little girl years earlier. Before she took his virginity, made him a man, and found that he was so wholly devoted to her, that she had ruined him for all others. Before she knew he would kill for her, die for her. Though she had probably always suspected.

But then he saw it, them: the glistening dew drops, the heartbreaking tears, sliding down her cheeks.

Nora had always been there for him as a young child; when Constance was out, or plastered, or just couldn't be bothered. But she had never shown an interest in Violet. And Tate had never thought much of it, doubted his sister would care, but what if she had? What if she feared, even then, all those years later, that he would choose Nora over her? Hadn't he always in turn been there for her? Didn't she know that no one compared to her? That he would burn down the fucking house, savage their world, just to be near her, to be loved by her?

The room was quiet aside from her gentle hiccups, occasional sniffs, and her brother was at a loss for what to do. The situation was so impossibly new.

First, he released her, letting her pull up her head, her hair falling protectively around her face, shielding her from his view. Second, he climbed over the back of the couch, slowly, afraid to scare the girl beside him. "Violet?"

She wouldn't look at him, hiding behind her curtain of dark blond. He could just make out her dusky plum colored lips and suddenly and probably inappropriately he could think of nothing but kissing them. It had been so long, countless, endless days, since he had done anything more than hold her, and he was desperate, aching. Her body under his, above him, around him. The mewling noises, her moans, panting in his ear, teeth tugging where his neck met his shoulder.

* * *

The last time that he had been with his sister he had already been dead but she was alive, breathing, gasping with relief that he wasn't truly gone, not completely taken from her, still dressed in her black shift from the funeral service, family and friends just downstairs.

He had sworn to himself it was the last time. He just needed to feel her ripe little body in his arms, his cock pounding into her, before he let go. His goodbye. She would never leave the house if she knew, really knew, that he was like Nora, trapped there for all eternity. And he wanted her to grow up, become a stunning woman, have a life away from him and Constance, away from the shit that had made up their existence. It was the most selfless thought of his life; that he cared more about her, her feelings, than his own. But he should have stayed away completely if that was how he really felt.

Maybe he had only been fooling himself, pretending, playing another game. Because Tate knew her, better than anyone, knew how she was. She was his whole world, his reason for living, his reason for dying. And he was inherently selfish.

After, he had disappeared, refused to show himself to her. He let her think she had imagined it, conjured up a fantasy, as she drifted into madness and loss. Violet's grief was a vast ocean that she could not pull herself out of.

She fucking killed herself. Constance's freshly refilled prescription of Valium disappearing down her throat, a bottle of vodka as the chaser.

Deep down he recognized that perhaps it had been his plan all along; though in the beginning he was unable to recognize it for what it was. Tate always wanted to be a good person. Wanted to believe that he loved her more than himself, that he would never let anyone hurt her, would protect her, always. But the one she had needed most protection from was him. And he couldn't stand that fact, so he dismissed it, ignored it. He was the darkness. And in a way, he had killed her.

And then they were both fucking dead and Violet was so fucking sad and so tired. And maybe she knew. Maybe she blamed him. Maybe that was why she was punishing him, denying him access to her body, her soul, the things most precious to him.

* * *

Tate's mind was black. His focus shifted to breaking shit, tearing the heart out of one of the other ghosts, feeding himself to that little fucking monster in the basement. Because any other kind of hurt would feel better than the one he was currently feeling. The one where Violet ignored him, hated him. The one where she didn't want him.

"I just," she stumbled over her words, mouth wet, hands tucked between her thighs.

"What?" He inched closer, hand sliding up and across her bare leg to wrap his fingers around her own.

Her eyes remained downcast so her brother used his free hand to brush strands of damp hair behind her ear, wanting so desperately to see her face. His chest ached as his tongue darted out to moisten his lips, imagining lapping up her tears, tasting their salt, his dick twitching, straining.

"…can't stand the thought of you wanting her." Violet's perfect white teeth flashed, brutally snapping at her lower lip. "Being with her," she drew a rasping breath, "the way you're with me." Her eyes finally sought his, wide and so incredibly lost, filled with pain, revulsion. "It's only supposed to be me." Her voice sounded pitiful to her own ears.

Exhaling in a rush Tate breathed, "It is only you, Violet." She shook her head, turned her eyes back to the crease of her thighs.

His own sister didn't believe him and Tate felt the momentarily dim light of his fury reignite, blaze and burn inside of him. He never fucking lied to her. She fucking knew that. How dare she question him?

Placing a hand on her shoulder, grip tight enough to bruise, gaze dark and penetrating, he shook her. Hard. Once, twice. His sister's teeth rattled, her head lolling back and forth like a ragdoll but her miserable countenance never changed as her eyes remained flat and dead.

"You don't believe me?" He hissed. She didn't reply, staring emotionlessly at her lap. That empty expression was the last thing, it broke him, destroyed his resolve. He loved for her, wanted to take care of her, give her time and space, but she made it impossible. She was forcing him to act, to prove himself, to make her understand. He didn't want to. He didn't enjoy hurting her.

"Fuck you," Tate seethed, wrenching his other hand away from her cold fingers, shoving his sister down onto her back, her head knocking into the arm of the sofa, face surprised, mouth forming a delicate 'o' as the air rushed out of her lungs. "I'll fucking show you it's only you, if you're going to be such a fucking little cunt."

Violet gasped when her took hold of each wrist in one hand, stretching her arms above her to the point of pain, holding her in place, as his knee rammed up between her thighs, forcing them wide. "What the fuck, Tate?" His sister yelped, fighting him, "Get the fuck…"

"Shut up," he demanded, his other hand clamping over her mouth, as she struggled, kicking out her legs, cursing behind his hand, teeth scraping the taught flesh there as she tried to bite him.

"I said shut the fuck up, Violet." There was no emotion in his voice, just a raw malevolence. "Do you see what you make me do?" He growled. "All I fucking wanted was to be there for you, to take care of you. I was so fucking patient, Violet. Waiting," he raged, "you made me wait, made me want you, and pushed me away. How could you do that to me?" His tone was the edge of a knife. "You love me. I'm your brother." His eyes were wild, spit trailing down his lip, his chin, as he roared, "You have to love me!"

Tate was nodding along with his words, caught up in a whirlwind of anger and resentment, fueled by his deepest seated fears, as she gazed up at him, frightened doe eyes locked on his dark stare, even darker than usual, filled with desire and venom. She stopped fighting, unable to move, like a small woodland creature trapped by a predator, a snake, he held her enthralled. "You just need to be reminded," he told her as his hand, the one on her wrists, slowly released her and moved down her body, slithering over her torso, between her legs, and to his fly, his zipper, which he all but tore open.

Staring down at her face he couldn't help but think that his sister was just so fucking beautiful; her eyes misty as she struggled to breath against his palm as he continued to cover her mouth and most of her nose.

He was fucking pissed off and she was being a cunt but slowly he removed his hand, let her take one hiccupping breath, before he leaned down and kissed her, driving her lips apart to probe her mouth with his tongue, his hand inching back up to grasp her wrists in a excruciating grip.

She was so hot, wet. So delicious. So Violet. And he almost came on the spot, holding himself above her quivering diminutive body. His hips rocked between her thighs, nudging his erection against the heat between her legs. And she sighed, a broken sound, her body no longer stiff, rigid, but growing pliant and willing.

His sister was only wearing one of his flannel shirts, a pair of cotton panties the only real barrier between them. Tate loved seeing her in his clothes, always had, right back to when they were still little kids. It made her smell like him and his shirts smell like her. It marked her out as his. Had done so even before he began leaving purple, red, black bruises on her skin with his mouth and his fingers.

It was a shame to ruin the shirt but he wasn't thinking about that as his hand slid up her body to grope at her breast, roughly tweaking the nipple and making her release a small, desperate sob. Tate wrenched his, her, shirt open, buttons flying and soaked in the sight of her with hungry eyes.

Her brother, he always had to take. He was so demanding, so needy. It was always about him. But part of her, the part that wasn't furious with his brutish behavior, was relieved. He still wanted her. Was so keyed up that he would take her however he had to. It wasn't that blond bitch in the basement always cooing over him. He still needed the one person who had always been there for him, loved him every second of her existence. Even if he was a shithead. A psychopath.

But did he have to be such a goddamned asshole about it? He was all reaction. Want, do, take, have.

Violet had needs to, desires. And she had felt unimportant, unwanted. Tate always storming off to the basement. She had fucking killed herself for him and before she could even properly get her head around it, he was sulking. In the beginning, those first days, after all the pills, she could barely lift her head, her arms, from the bed. And there was her brother, appearing behind her, wrapping himself up in her body, pressing his dick into her ass. What did he want from her? To know what it was like to rape someone unconscious? Because that was just about all she could have offered him. Instead, he took it personally. Pouted to Nora who was more than happy soothe him. Just as she always had been. Fucking bitch. She was as bad as Constance. He just didn't see it.

But now? She could do this now. Be with him. Her continued depression had only been a response to his presumed rejection. So when her brother dragged his knuckle along the soaked crotch of her panties Violet groaned. "Tate," her hips tilted upward, making him smirk as his hair hung down in his face, falling into his eyes. His fingertips clawed at cotton, wrenching it to the side, as he sunk two fingers deep within her, humming softly to himself.

The wet sounds his fingers made as he pulled out and drove back into her aching chasm were obscene. She was so wet for him. Tate was barely able to contain himself as he withdrew, his hand burning a path over her bare hip as he leaned into the cradle of her thighs and ran the bulbous head of his cock against her. His sister, writhing and gorgeous beneath him, moaned, deep and throaty, as he swept his mouth across hers.

"Violet," it was that silly little boy voice he reserved only for her. She bit her lip in response, wide eyes taking him in as her pelvis thrust upward, desperate to have him inside her. It has been so long and she had been so lonely for his touch but afraid to ask for it, afraid to see the refusal on his beautiful face.

To be with him for eternity, cradled against him, but to have him keep his hands safely on her hips or around her waist, for his lips to stray no further than her hair, to have him acting the part of a brother, only a brother, the idea had been almost more than she could bear. She had chosen ignorance instead though it had been far from bliss.

"If I let you go," he grinned, voice low, like they were tucked up in the dark sharing secrets, "do you promise to be a good girl?"

Her brother could vacillate between ruthless, demeaning, and blessedly sweet, childlike, in the matter of a heartbeat. Sometimes his behavior just about gave her whiplash. But she loved both sides of him. The good boy and the bad. Because really, she could be two people as well. And Tate had always craved both.

She nodded, left her arms above her as he positioned himself at her cunt and rammed into her waiting body without another word or thought. His sister's breath caught in her throat, legs locking around his hips, her jagged sharp edges digging into his muscles. Her mouth was open, eyes rolled back, neck lifted and extended. He took that as an invitation and immediately set to the task of leaving a mark, something fresh and bloody and blooming. Her first after death.

Violet's hips rose to meet his in a fierce collision as her hands moved, fingers winding their way into his dirty, bleached locks. And he was lifting her up from the cushions, hands behind her back, pulling her up to sit on his thighs, before falling back against the rough velvet behind him, leaving his sister to ride him. Fuck, he couldn't get enough of watching her do that.

"Mmm, Tate," she hummed. "Missed you. So much. Oh, please, Tate," her palms were on his face as his hands grasped her hips, guiding her, helping her move above him as he stared up in awe.

"You mean," he panted, thrown, "you still want me? Even after..."

"Always want you. Only you," she sighed, her face hidden amidst her hair.

"But you've been so..."

She looked up at him, lower lip caught between her teeth as her eyes closed in bliss. He held his breath, waiting. "Thought you didn't want me anymore," she told him finally, guiltily.

It was so fucking hard to focus, to form words, with his sister's sweet cunt sucking and pulling at his dick. "How could I ever not want you, this?" His gaze fell on the place where their bodies joined, watching as he impaled her on himself, as her body lifted up, leaving his cock slick and coated in her juices, before sliding back down. It was just so fucking perfect.

She shrugged, hands moving to his chest, shoving his t-shirt up so that she had access to his pale flesh. Her lips descended to take a nipple into her mouth, grazing it with her teeth. Tate hissed, thrusting violently upward making Violet squeak, her eyes closing.

"You died," she told him, panting, chest stuttering to rise and fall, to accommodate her body's need for oxygen. "You left me."

"Everything I did was for you, Violet. All of it."

"But I didn't ask you to. Wouldn't have." She was so close.

Tate desperately wanted to respond, to argue, but he had lost all ability to speak. Instinct took over, driving him up, into her, rough and sloppy. But she was right along with him, gasping and groaning, folded in half, body boneless. Violet's fingers clutched at his shoulders, grasping for purchase, as her cunt spasmed and clenched around him, mouth dropping open in a silent scream.

It only took her brother a handful of upward thrusts before he joined her, arms wrapping around Violet's torso, crushing her sweat soaked body to his, as his eyes slammed shut, a series of grunts escaping him, as he filled her, left her overflowing with his sticky cum. It had been too long, built up. Her thighs would be sticky for days. For eternity, if he had his way.

Tate breathed in, out, chest heaving, before rolling them. His sister was silent, allowing him to maneuver her onto her side next to him, crowding her on half of the sofa, his hands in her hair, skimming down her neck, over her breast, and onto the smooth plane of her stomach.

Her fingers danced across his cheek, skipped along his nose, pulled at his lower lip. With a sigh she told him in a whisper, "I didn't want to die." Violet was unable to see him through the darkness of her closed eyelids and was glad of it. She hated to hurt him. But he had to know.

Tate's fingers stilled on her body. "I tried to save you," he replied, voice petulant, a hint of a whine. "You just took so many pills, Violet."

She knew that. She didn't want him to have saved her. That wasn't her regret. Violet wished that neither of them had died. That Tate had let it go, had stayed in bed with her that morning rather than leaving. That they could have grown up together, left home, run from Constance and built a life together somewhere else where no one knew them. Where they could have learned to be happy. Just as they were.

But her dreams had died with Tate. There had been nothing left for her.

"I wouldn't," she shook her head, amended, "couldn't live without you. Without you, there was no me." When she opened her eyes, nervous, afraid of his reaction, the hurt she would see, she was surprised. Tate wasn't upset, instead he radiated pleasure.

His lips crashed into hers, mouth greedy, and she yielded without thought, giving herself over.

"We're one," he told her seriously, pulling away, and she gazed at him with those big eyes. "We were born for each other, to be together. And now," he breathed, a small rakish smile gracing his visage, "we can be together forever. And Mama can't do a fucking thing about it."

Violet's face turned stony. The mere thought, mention of that woman, their mother, the one who had made her life hell for so many years, who had been the ultimate cause of their deaths, left her cold. "Get rid of her," she told him finally.

"You want me to kill Constance?" He asked, surprise painting his face.

His sister shook her head, silken strands of hair cascading over her shoulders to brush her pert bare breasts, rub against his chest, tickling him. "We'd be stuck with her then. I just want her out of the fucking house. Away from me, from us. Can you do that? For me?" She bit her lip, waiting. She had been manipulating her brother most of her life and death certainly hadn't changed that.

He needed guidance, a hand to lead him down the path. Of the two of them, she was the strong one. He needed her strength, was drawn to it. She filled holes that would otherwise grow into gaping maws of hell and torment. His sister channel his energies instead. She played the long game while her brother played the short. She planned, he acted. And when they put their heads together, two against the world, they were unbeatable, unstoppable.

* * *

The house went on the market in less than two weeks. Constance fled screaming into the night. Violet and Tate watched her go from the large front window on the second floor, his arm draped carelessly over his sister's shoulders, her hand tucked into the back pocket of this torn, faded jeans. "Thank you," she whispered, lips against his chest, breath hot against his t-shirt, and Tate gripped her just a little closer, a little tighter.

Next, she would find a way to rid them of Nora. Mothering was something Violet and Tate Langdon were through with.


	4. Early Spring, 1994 - Part 1

Warning: Incest – if you don't like it, that's totally cool, just don't read, okay? Cutting, self-harm, bullying, humiliation, suggestions of abuse. If you are uncomfortable with any of these things you may not want to read.

Much happier with this chapter, broken into two parts, than with the last. Expect the second part at week's end.

Tate/Violet, Rated – M

Disclaimer – I do not own American Horror Story. Only the idea for this fic is mine.

I have a tumblr now! Check it out – drollicpixie. tumblr. Com

* * *

**Early Spring, 1994 – Part 1**

"The school called," Violet and Tate were sat together on the brown velvet couch, thighs pressed against one another, shoulders touching.

"So?" asked the boy nonchalantly, his sister remained stoically silent. "Do they want to extend my suspension or something?" That kid's busted face was worth another week.

"No," Constance told him. "This was about your sister, not you." He shot her a disbelieving look but Violet's eyes remained on the spot just over their mother's boney shoulder. "They seem to believe that you're being bullied or some nonsense by the girls in your P.E. class and they wanted me to speak with you. Apparently there was an incident the day before yesterday?"

Tate's fingers flexed, curled into a fist on his leg. They had done something to her, those fucking cunts. And she had fucking kept it from him.

"They didn't do anything," Violet replied in a monotone. Their mother merely raised one perfectly sculpted brow. "It was a misunderstanding, that's all."

"You've always been a rotten liar, Violet," she sneered. "But if you want to ignore whatever those little bitches did to you, go right ahead. Being a tattle-tail certainly isn't going to make you any friends. And lord knows you couldn't be any less popular with your peers," a head shake. "I just do not understand. Why, at your age I was never off the phone, made my daddy furious. Friends, boys, dates, parties and yet here you sit, night after night. You're a pretty girl, Violet," she stressed. Tate glowered. His sister wasn't pretty, she was beautiful, stunning, the most gorgeous creature on Earth. "And you," her attention swung to the boy, "don't even get me started. You have brought more shame on this family with your brutish, anti-social behavior than my poor heart can just about bear." She shook her head again with disgust, "Shameful, the pair of you," and walked away to refill her empty glass.

Violet sighed. Tate glared. "Later," she told him before he could even say a word.

* * *

"It was nothing," she repeated to him that night in the dark quiet of his room, curled up on the bed.

"Violet," he breathed against her neck, a warning.

"It was just a prank."

She didn't know why she was lying to him, why she thought he would let it go, why she thought he wouldn't find out the following day when he returned to school. Everyone knew. And even though she was the only one Tate spoke to at Westfield there was no way he could avoiding overhearing at least some part of it.

"Who?" His lips dragging across her throat. "Tell me," he urged. "I'll make them so fucking sorry, Violet."

"That's exactly why I didn't tell you in the first place," she whispered, voice low even though their mother and her current live-in boyfriend were passed out, dead-drunk, at the opposite end of the house . Her brother paused his ministrations, raising up his head to gaze down at her. She turned, pressing her front to his side, an arm wrapping around his torso. "They won't suspend you next time, Tate. They'll fucking kick you out."

"I don't give a shit. Westfield blows. I'll..."

"No. You're going to finish school, graduate, and we're going to get the hell out of here."

That had always been Violet's plan. Escape. Tate just wanted to be wherever Violet was.

"Okay?" she asked.

His end of the conversation was quiet for a long time until, after a halting breath, he agreed, "Okay."

"Thank you," she relaxed, muscles releasing tension as she molded her body to his. He lifted her slight form and draped her over him, on top of him, kissed her proffered mouth, ran his hands down her sides covered only by one of his thermal shirts and up underneath.

* * *

The girls in gym were fucking awful, which didn't surprise Violet because gym itself was the worst and girls were just awful in general. Her willowy pale limbs were wholly different from those of her classmates' tanned and toned bodies. They wore their shirts, their shorts, as small and as tight as possible. Violet insisted on wearing Tate's old uniform from the year prior. It covered her arms, her legs, the cuts and scars, from their prying eyes.

On the upper most part of her inner thigh she had once, while in a fit of rage directed at Constance, who had called her a whore for whispering in her brother's ear while they sat on his bed, carved Tate's name, digging the blade in over and over until it was etched there brutally for all time. Her brother had been so enamored of it he had spent nearly an hour, after their mother slipped away into an alcohol and Valium induced slumber, alternately laving the brand with his tongue and licking her pussy, making her bite down on her arm to keep from screaming out into the still house.

The girls at school however would likely see it very differently than Tate. They would see it how the rest if the world saw it, as something disgusting or filthy. But that was the exact opposite of how she felt. Tate loved her, no one could love her more. And to Violet, who had known so little love or affection in her life from anyone else, it was beautiful and special.

People called her 'Freak' and 'Brother-lover' anyway. Even without seeing it.

Tate was her only friend. And she was his. But that labeled them outcasts. As did their grunge style of dress, her brother's overly hostile attitude and temper, and her silence, all of which unnerved their classmates. Her brother had defended her, with fists and teeth, bruises and cuts, since they were kids but he had grown vicious and cruel with age. Tate had almost killed Paul Gilligan for telling some guys he had fucked Violet, made her cry and beg for it, like the little freak that she was. That she would do anything for cock, was a real slut. And thus he had been suspended for a week, missing everything that had happened. Violet had never been so happy to have Tate not at school in her life.

* * *

Leah and Chloe. They hated her. Violet never exactly understood why.

"Hey Langdon!" They stopped her in the locker room as she was quietly trying to change in her usual corner. She said nothing, barely glanced up.

"Why do you always wear that?" Leah tugged on her two-sizes too large long-sleeved shirt. "You hiding something?"

Still no response, though Violet was frozen in place, waiting.

"Maybe you're, like, totally disfigured or something, is that it?" Chloe asked. A group of girls was forming behind them, watching, smirking.

"Or maybe she's actually a boy. It would explain all of those ugly sack dresses she wears. And her complete lack of a body." Leah ran her hands over herself emphasizing the point. Girls snickered.

Chloe laughed meanly at the suggestion. "But that would be too easy." She looked thoughtful, considering, her eyes lighting up, "I know! Let's find out!" And grabbed Violet by the arms, pulling her forward. When she struggled Leah knocked her to the ground, sat on her hips, pinned her arms to her sides.

"Get it," she told a third girl, one of her lackeys, who reappeared a moment later with a Polaroid. "Maybe you've got a Brother-lover tattoo? Hmm?" And that quickly her shirt was being yanked over her head.

Violet's breasts were small, she so rarely wore a bra, even in gym where she mainly sat on the bleachers, observing the others with a blank expression. And so that quickly she was fully exposed, laid bare to the group of giggling, gawking girls. Chloe, behind Leah, ripped her shorts down her legs and she was left in only her purple cotton panties, mouth hanging open, cheeks flaming vibrant red.

"Oh my god," Leah cackled, staring down at her tits. "Look who _is_ a little fucking slut. And I thought those were just stupid rumors!"

Violet let her eyes fall closed as shame rose up to choke her, she refused to cry. Violet Langdon did not cry, had not since she was a little girl.

Her breasts were covered in bruises, hickies; Tate had been rough with her a few nights before, left the imprint of his lips, his perfect teeth on her soft flesh.

A light flashed, the camera whirred, and the first photo spit out of the machine. Next they took pictures of her slashed wrists, the cuts across her belly, and finally her mortified, stricken face.

Leah, thankfully, was sat in such a way that Violet's thighs were pressed together, her most telling secret still hidden away. "Dirty, dirty girl!" She cheered. "With this much hidden up here, what will we find," her finger grazed the edge of Violet's underwear, "down here?"

"No!" the girl on the floor snapped up, fighting, thrashing. "Get the fuck off me!"

"It speaks!" Chloe clapped in delight.

"What is going on in here?" a voice rang out. "Girls?" It was Mrs. Marshall, their gym teacher. "My god, Leah, let that girl up!"

And then it was over but as Chloe and the others were being lead away and Violet was inching toward her locker, desperate not to be seen but to get her clothes on, Leah saw it. Tate, on her thigh, where they had failed to take a picture.

Her gaze narrowed, "You really are a fucking freak," she spat. "Does he know? About your twisted little obsession? You're disgusting. I'm telling everyone, Langdon. Everyone." She pointed threateningly before spinning around and following the others out.

Violet pulled on her clothes in a trance, walked the halls and climbed into her brother's car the same way when he picked her up around the corner after school. She hadn't been the same since, the fear overwhelming her, dragging her down. Fear of Tate. Fear for Tate. Fear for everyone else at Westfield.


	5. Early Spring, 1994 - Part 2

Warning: Incest – if you don't like it, that's totally cool, just don't read, okay? Cutting, self-harm, bullying, humiliation, suggestions of abuse and sexual abuse, drugs, violence. If you are uncomfortable with any of these things you may not want to read.

Tate & Violet, Rated – M

Disclaimer – I do not own American Horror Story. Only the idea for this fic is mine.

I have a tumblr now! Check it out – drollicpixie. tumblr. Com

* * *

Early Spring, 1994 – Part 2

"Oh man, I saw them," Travis Shepard was saying to the idiot beside him hanging on his every word. "That little whore is kinky, dude. Like her tits? Had bite marks on them! And she was all slashed up and shit. It was crazy. I would totally fuck her! So freaky."

Tate glared at their backs, moving toward his locker. He had already walked Violet to hers and dropped her off at homeroom, where she promised him, again, that she was fine. She wasn't fucking fine. He knew Violet and something was wrong. Really fucking wrong.

Strangely, there was a crowd in the hall ahead of him. It was usually empty that time of day, most kids already rushing to class. Scowling, he approached, people turning to stare, gape at him. The hairs on the back of his neck, on his arms, stood up. His spine tingled. Striding forward, Tate cracked his knuckles preparing for a fight. But the people around his locker stepped back, cleared a path and let him through.

When Tate looked up he saw red. He had no real memory of anything that happened after that moment. All he knew was what Violet would later tell him. That he had stopped, frozen, staring at the Polaroids of her naked body, her breasts, her shamed and horrified face, before violently tearing them down, screaming a litany of curses. At that time his sister had come running down the hall, having overheard someone talking about the pictures on his locker and wanting to be no where near him when he saw them. His fist pounded his locker, denting the metal, while his other hand continued to clutch the evidence of what Violet's classmates had done to her, what she had hidden from him.

Students backed up, fleeing, some staying to smirk, laugh, taking their lives into their own hands. It wasn't until she reached him, her small hand on his shoulder, that he seemed to come to himself.

"Tate?" she hushed. He spun on her, thrusting the photos in her face and watching her expression turn from concerned, anxious, to something crestfallen and ashamed. "I'm sorry," she told him, up on her tip-toes, throwing her arms around his neck, clutching him to her, not carrying who saw. "I'm so sorry. I couldn't tell you. I just couldn't."

There were footsteps rushing their way; not the sound of sneakers but dress shoes. "We need to go," Violet rushed, grabbing his arm and tugging. She expected him to resist but he went easily, instead pulling her backpack from her shoulder and throwing it over his own, ushering her down the hall and toward the emergency doors.

* * *

"The school called," their mother drawled before Violet had managed to ease the kitchen door closed. She winced, Tate ground his teeth, a growl emanating from him. "They saw you fleeing the scene, or whatever it was you were doing, ditching before first period even began. So, which one of you wants to explain?" Strolling into the room she grabbed her pack of smokes, lit one, and eyed her children with undisguised loathing.

When neither of them said a word, Violet gazing at her with wide eyed as her brother shook, pale and anguished looking, corded neck muscles straining to the point of breaking, Constance rolled her eyes.

"What the damn hell do you think you were doing?"

"I thought you had a hair appointment, Mama." Violet began, lips sagging in a frown. That girl was always frowning and her mother just wanted to knock the expression off her face. She had tried before, of course, but it never worked.

"Did you?" She exhaled. "Well, then it's a good thing that the school caught me on my way out." Neither Violet nor Tate said another word as she eyed them shrewdly. "So I will repeat my question. What do you think you're doing? Skipping classes, screaming and carrying on in the halls." When there was still no response she shook her head despondently before pointing her cigarette at each of her children in turn. "You were coming back here to be alone, weren't you? How could you? He's your brother," Constance hissed at her daughter. "You horrible little slut!"

"Mama," Violet swallowed, putting a hand on her brother's quaking forearm.

"Don't play me for a fool, Violet Langdon! An abortion at fourteen! Wouldn't tell me who the father was. Wouldn't even have told me about it, if you hadn't needed my permission." Her withering gaze turned to her son, "And you. My golden boy, such promise. Destroyed by lust and avarice. Over her!" Their mother's hand waved at the girl before her. "Slipping into your sister's room at night, filling her up with your sin, your mess."

Tate roared, pushed to his breaking point, and slammed his fists on the kitchen island, lost to a fit of rage. The photos fell from his grip, fluttering to the floor. "Shhh," Violet rubbed his back, forgetting momentarily about her mother, the Polaroids, everything but her brother and his suffering. "Tate," her voice took on a more commanding tone. "Listen to me…"

"Violet," her mother seethed beside her, wrenching her arm back and away from Tate, the pictures in her other manicured hand, "you make me sick. Get this trash out of my sight." She tossed them down on the counter in front of her boy, his face red, blotchy, tear soaked. He always had been weak.

"But this, well," Constance turned thoughtful, making Violet nervous. She attempted to tug free of her mother's grasp as she observed something gleeful appear in her expression, "It tells me that I've made the right decision." Tate glanced up at his mother, then to his wary sister, confused. "Larry suggested it and I was uncertain to begin with but I see now how right he was. You need somewhere more conducive to learning, somewhere with real discipline. Somewhere away from here, away from him," she nodded to her son. "So I've enrolled you at Lemon Grove. It's a boarding school for girls," she smiled serenely, "upstate. We're certain it will be a better fit for you." She inhaled, exhaled, as her daughter tried to process the information, mouth dropping open. The grin slipped, her gaze hard, "Don't gape like a fish, Violet, it's unattractive. You leave Monday."

Neither had been paying enough attention to the boy beside Violet but his mother's last words seemed to break something in him, flip a switch.

"No!" Tate snarled, lunging forward but his mother was ready, hauling back her palm and slapping him square across the face. He stopped, starting in surprise, as she dropped her smoldering filter to the ground, hands coming around this throat, before she rained a hail of open handed blows down on him, fingernails scratching at his face.

"Mama!" Violet moved to protect her brother as his shoulders slumped, his face tormented, but he shifted, sidestepped to stay between the two women.

"Please, Mama," Tate protested, all but cowering, "please don't." And he sounded just like a little boy again, broken and tragic. Violet thought back to all of the times Constance had smacked him in the mouth, tugged her hair, hit them with a switch chosen just for the occasion from the backyard. The drinking and the men, the hungry, lonely nights, she and her brother clinging to one another.

"Shut your mouth!" Constance screeched. "I've had just about enough of you. Both of you! Now get upstairs and out of my sight. This instant!" Violet, the photos in hand, helped her brother up, shepherding him away, out of the kitchen. "I should have taken a coat-hanger to myself, aborted you both! It would have caused me less pain, I tell you." Their mother yelled as her children hurriedly staggered up the stairs, arms around one another. "Disgusting," she shook her head a final time, picking up the discarded butt and lighting another one off its still glowing end.

* * *

"I'm not surprised," Violet told him, voice flat, as he stormed behind her into her room, taking up residence in his chair, watching her like a hawk. His face was streaked but his eyes were cold, the fear of moments before replaced with fury. "Constance has always hated me," she shrugged, trying to placate her brother. "She hates any competition for male affection. Daddy, you," she paused, let out a ragged breath, eyes anywhere but on him, "Larry."

Tate was barely listening, enraged and upset as he was, his heart pounding, the voices in his head screaming. It felt like dying. Like falling off of a cliff. "Wait," he spluttered to life, "what about Larry?"

His sister was unlacing her boots, curtain of hair obscuring her face but when he said it, her back went rigid, head turning ever so slightly in his direction.

"Violet," his tone was threatening. He was so fucking sick and tired of having to drag things out of her. Tate never kept a fucking secret from his sister in his life. Not one. He told her every miserable thing he did, every depraved thought he had. She knew about the whispers telling him what to do, the urges; the need for blood and bile and gore. The closest he had ever come to keeping a secret from her had been years before when all he could think about, imagine, jerk off to, was fucking her. Plowing into her body, claiming her as his own, being her first, her only. And that had eventually come out after all and it had turned out that she had known all along. She had played him, worked him, made him crazy flaunting herself, and when the time was right, given herself over, wholly and completely.

Her breathing was even, shallow, but sounded alien to his ears.

"No more secrets," he admonished icily, making her wince, guilt eating her up inside.

When his sister managed to speak her voice was low, sad, "Last week, Larry walked in on me in the shower." She stopped what she was doing, turned to look at him, really look at him, taking in his furious visage. "He said it was an accident," she swallowed thickly, "but he pulled back the curtain and just stared at me, his eyes everywhere, before he said that. So I really fucking doubt it. I felt so," she shuddered. "I hate the feel of his eyes on me, Tate. And I feel like I can't get away from him. Like he's always looking, watching. Like he's waiting. And my skin crawls."

Tate dropped out of the chair, crawling on all fours to perch at her feet, staring up at her. The words were choking him but he had to ask, to know, "Violet," his warm palm cupped her knee through her torn black tights, "did he ever touch you?" His hand was shaking, tremors running through him.

She shook her head and he almost felt like he could breath again, aside from the terrible wrath that was consuming him, stealing away every last good thing about him, leaving only her. And it.

There was a sniff but no sobs escaped her, no salt water on her cheeks, his fierce little girl. Tate would fix it, in more ways than one. He would fix all of it, for her. And he would start by replacing the feel of Larry's eyes on her with the rasp of his tongue over every inch of her delicate, pale, quivering body.

* * *

The next morning, her alarm unplugged, Violet slept late, worn to a bare thread, exhausted. Tate kissed her naked shoulder, tongue lingering, tasting her, as he ran his fingertips lovingly along the ridges of her spine, whispering, "I love you," against her skin before he hefted the black bag onto his shoulder, eyes blazing and dark, his system jacked full of coke. His bag was loaded with guns, the small arsenal kept under his mattress, the one that had always made his sister nervous. But he refused to let them get away with it, any of them, what they had done to her. With one long last look at his most precious possession he left the room, pulling her door closed and praying that she didn't miss him until it was far too late.

* * *

Larry was first. Lighting that son-of-a-bitch on fire was a thrill like Tate had never known. The screams as he flailed, burning to death, were even better.

At school, second period had just begun, the halls largely empty, but that was fine. Tate knew where his targets were. Leah would be in the office, Chloe in the library.

It just so happened that he managed to fucking kill thirteen other kids that day. Shitheads who had laughed at the pictures, at her, at him. The ones who had sneered and gawked, who had called her a slut, a freak.

Leah never saw it coming, which was perhaps sad, but the shocked expression on her face, wide eyes and open mouth, blood pouring from her neck, had been worth the lack of build up.

Chloe was the last to go. Her boyfriend, some football jock telling him it was done, over, went just before her. And it was beautiful, the way Tate's bullet so cleanly sailed through the guy's forehead, the back of his skull exploding. But it was nothing compared to watching the girl piss herself, beg for her life, ask him why. "For Violet," he told her and blew a hole through the space where people probably believed she had a heart.

* * *

"Does Tate Langdon live here?" The police officer asked his mother. Violet was in her room reading as he sat in wait. She had greeted his return home with a kiss and the promise of more later but she had an assignment to finish. He waved her off, smiling.

"Why, yes." Constance told them at the door, rolling her eyes, "What has he done now? That boy," but she was cut off as the SWAT team rushed past her, leaving the door wide open as they stormed the stairs. "Wait!" She took off after them, realizing her son had done more than get into some school trouble. "Tate!"

His sister, hearing the commotion, stumbled up from her bed, swiftly striding toward her door. When it opened before she could put her hand on the knob there was a man dressed in black, in Kevlar, holding a finger up to his mouth and baring the exit. She looked around frantically, straining to see past him, over his shoulder or under his arm. "Tate!" Violet screamed, terror suddenly choking her. She plowed past the man, slipping nimbly under his arm and sliding out into the hall, only in time to hear the shots. To hear a man ask, "Why did you do it?" as her stomach dropped along with her, as her body fell to the floor, pooling on the hardwoods in a ball. "Tate!" She wailed, "Tate!"

Their mother stood only feet away, a look of stunned horror on her face, quietly staring as the men in black retreated from her only boy's room.

"Tate," the tiny ball of girl on the floor repeated over and over, rocking, ever more shattered and lost. But she never let a single tear slip. She wouldn't let them see her cry. His murderers.


	6. Summer, 2000

Warning: Incest – if you don't like it, that's totally cool, just don't read, okay?

The Harmon's move into the house earlier in this story (2000) than they do on the show (2011), so they are younger and have no children. Chad and Patrick still preceded the Harmon's in owning Murder House.

Tate & Violet, Rated – M

Disclaimer – I do not own American Horror Story. Only the idea for this fic is mine.

I have a tumblr now! Check it out – drollicpixie. tumblr. Com

* * *

_Summer, 2000_

Violet took to shadowing Vivien Harmon; following, watching, lying on the music room floor, listening, as the woman practiced her cello. The couple had a small, fluffy, sorry excuse for a dog that barked whenever his sister was nearby no matter how she tried to coax the thing into liking her. It knew she was a ghost and the dead were never to be trusted. The dead tended to turn on the living. Out of jealousy, rage, loneliness. Dogs could just sense that kind of shit. And in her bitterness, Violet began mockingly calling it 'Baby Substitute'. She wasn't wrong it turned out.

It always amazed Violet and Tate what people were willing to say when they thought they were alone. How much information they were able to glean about a couple just by lingering, overhearing, observing.

The previous winter, Ben, Dr. Harmon, had been caught in the act, fucking a twenty-one year old student. Vivien, who was still recovering from a brutal miscarriage, took it understandably hard.

The miscarriage had been her second. They had lost a girl at six months in '96 before the boy at seven months, three years later.

"Mama would have said she has a cursed womb," Violet told him, head resting in the crook of his bare arm.

"Fuck Mama."

"I feel bad for Vivien," his sister sighed, staring up at the ceiling from their nest of blankets on the attic floor. "If she was half as good to her kids as she is to that dog…"

He shrugged, fingers playing with, twirling, the ring on his thumb.

"Do you think they might have been like us? Their kids? If they had been born." Tate suspected that Violet wished she was the Harmon's daughter. That they had been their parents rather than Constance and Hugo. She thought things, their lives, their subsequent deaths, could have been different. A large part of him doubted it would have changed anything.

His brows drawing together, her brother asked, "How do you mean?"

Violet turned, propping her chin on her palm, gazing down at him, wetting her lips. Tate put his hand up around her neck and dragged her down to leisurely taste her mouth.

"Like, do you think they could have loved each other like we love each other?"

"I don't know," he replied honestly. "Not a lot of people love each other like we do."

"Yeah," Violet grinned.

"We're special," her brother smirked before she kissed him.

* * *

"Do you think it would be okay if my sister came to my next session, Dr. Harmon?"

Ben was sitting across from Tate, a yellow legal pad balanced on his knee, as he reclined casually in the leather arm chair. The boy, dressed in ripped jeans and a Nirvana t-shirt, was perched on the very edge of the sofa, chewing his lower lip. The kid always looked out of place, half a decade too late. More how the older man had appeared when he met his wife, when they had been happy, before everything had fallen apart and gone to shit. Before the babies and Hayden and California for a fresh start.

The doctor cocked his head, considering, clicking his pen.

"She really wants to come." Tate added.

"To your therapy session?" Why on earth would some boy's sister want to waste an hour of her summer vacation listening to them talk about the frankly disturbing images in Tate's head?

The boy nodded. "She was the one who encouraged me to start coming to you in the first place. Violet really wants to help."

"I guess," Ben finally relented, shrugging. "If she wants to come and you don't mind her being here, I see no harm in it."

"Thanks," Tate grinned. Behind him, his sister, who only he could see, shared his smile. She had been sitting in on his sessions since the beginning, the first one, when her brother told Dr. Harmon about the noble war, his obsession with blood letting. When he had a hard time speaking, expressing himself, she would touch his shoulder, settle beside him on the plush cushions, whisper in his ear, kiss his neck, encouraging him without words.

After a couple of weeks she wanted an opportunity to meet the man for herself, in person, palm to palm, shaking hands, the recognition on his face reminding her that she was a real girl. Even though technically she was a ghost.

"Are you taking your medication?" The doctor changed topics as Violet moved, drifting around the room.

There was no where for Tate to fill a prescription. They could, perhaps, have asked Constance, but their needing her would have given their mother far too much satisfaction. So he lied. "Yes. I was taking them at night but they kept me up."

"What did you do?" Ben smirked, blue eyes bright.

"Started taking them in the morning?" Tate twiddled his thumbs, head resting on the arm of the couch and Violet was starkly reminded of the old brown velvet sofa, the one that had belonged to Mama, to them. It had remained even when she had gone, moldering, decaying, until the next owners, the gay couple, tossed it out with the garbage. Her brother had been enraged. But everything about Chad and Patrick had upset him. While she had liked the couple, and perhaps that had been their greatest misdeed, she hadn't been surprised when her brother murdered them. It only caused her a momentary pang of regret. Though she did pity their misery when they discovered that they were trapped for eternity. Not all lovers were happy bound to one place, one person, for all time, she learned.

"Light sensitivity is pretty common," the doctor nodded, drawing her back into the conversation.

"He's trying to trap you," she said from behind the man's dark head. Tate just smiled, still staring at his hands, dimples on display.

He let himself get caught in the deception, stood, shifting to the chair farthest from Violet. Ben followed, joking, placating, playing the good guy, as she stayed by the door, watching.

Blond hair fell into Tate's eyes as her brother cast a glance at her through the gap between Dr. Harmon's arm and torso. "I was afraid my big dick wouldn't work." She cocked a brow at him, lips quirking.

"What?" The other man laughed.

"Yeah, that's why I didn't take the meds. I was afraid my dick wouldn't work. Because," he paused, trapping her, holding her with his dark eyes, "I've got this girl."

"A girl, huh?" Ben asked, smile growing more carnal. "She want to come to our sessions too?"

"Uh…"

"I'm teasing, Tate. Good for you!" He clapped, stood, walked toward the window. But his gaze was nervous; a boy like Tate Langdon, a possible psychotic, most likely homicidal, with a girlfriend, could be worse than he had previously imagined. In the right situation, he feared, pushed to his limit, Tate could explode. And girls had a tendency to be the impetuous for young men exploding. He knew from experience. Still, at least the boy was letting him in, sharing, and that was an encouraging sign. "Thank you for being honest. I want us to trust one another."

"Me too, Dr. Harmon."

And then their session was done for the day.

"I look forward to meeting your sister…"

"Violet." He stated.

"Violet," the other man repeated, returning to his chair, his notes, which the girl in question had been scanning through only moments before, "next week."

* * *

The house smelled of cigarettes. Again. It wasn't a permeating smell, not like the former owners had smoked, leaving the remnants of tar and tobacco forever seeped into the hardwoods, the wallpaper. It was occasional. Like someone had just been in the room, burning stick in hand, then had vanished, walked away, the faint waft in their wake.

Vivien thought it was him, sneaking cigarettes after he had sworn he quit. She was only half wrong. He _had_ been sneaking smokes behind her back. He was stressed: the baby, babies, the affair, the move, establishing a new practice. Ben had a lot of shit on his plate. But where the fuck _was_ the smell coming from? Because it wasn't him. He was far more careful than that.

A couple of days later he thought he might have the answer. A young girl, willowy limbs and long flowing hair, stood in their backyard as the sun set, the glowing ember of a lit cigarette just visible in the dim light. She leaned against the potting shed, chin lifted, wearing only a shirt as far as he could tell, her legs exposed, a length of creamy thigh extending down to slender calves and bare feet. She was probably hiding from her parents. Had snuck into their yard. The place had been empty for nearly a year before he and his wife had moved in; she might not even realize that the house was inhabited once more.

With a sigh Ben turned away from the sight, adjusting his overly tight jeans, and set off for the kitchen where Viv was apparently cooking up something special. He could tell her about the girl, he thought about it at least, but his wife, on occasion, had a stick up her ass about that sort of thing. She would want him to tell the teen off, shoo her away, inform her that she was on private property and not to come back. But really all he wanted to do was disappear outside and bum a smoke off her, ask her what kind of music she was into, how old she was. So, he said nothing at all.

* * *

Ben was watching from his office window as Tate came down the front walk with the girl, his hand on the small of her back. She was the one who he had seen in his backyard. He would have sworn it was her. And she was even more gorgeous, stunning, than he had imaged; so young and fresh. Like a breath of sweet summer air. Like Vivien had been once, when they first met.

She couldn't have been more then fifteen, sixteen, he figured, as she stared up in wondering adoration at the boy. Ben couldn't believe such a creature could be so invested in her brother. She should have been busy sneaking passionate kisses behind the bleachers, drinking jaeger at a some high school party, smiling as she strolled down Melrose, winking at guys like him, driving them crazy knowing she was still a couple of years away from touchable.

Like Tate she appeared to be about five years late in her fashion choices, preferring grungy, torn, and vintage to the days fluttering mini-skirts, pastels, and flip-flops. Dressed in a pair of obscenely short, faded jean shorts, frayed to pieces, a loose tank top, and a flannel over-shirt, she reminded him of his med school days. Young girls in bars vying for his attention, batting their thick black lashes until he bought them a drink, The Chili Peppers playing so loud he had to scream to be heard yelling, "What's your major?"

A cigarette dangled between her fingers as long honey colored strands whipped in the wind. Her feet were bare. She was saying something to Tate, brushing the hair out of his eyes, motheringly, as the boy grinned. He swooped down suddenly and kissed her cheek, light and quick, making her laugh. A moment later the doorbell rang.

* * *

"Miss Langdon," he offered her his best panty-wetting smile.

"Violet," she returned, big eyes gazing at him, mouth a little open, but no real expression, nothing to give her away. What she was thinking, feeling. Her earlier carefree joy forgotten.

Her small hand in his was cold and all he could think about was how it would feel on his cock. Ben cleared his throat, looking away. "Why don't you both take a seat?" He gestured to the couch. Tate placed himself immediately beside his sister, their thighs brushing, shoulders touching. "Okay, great," Ben nodded, rubbing his hands together, eyes flitting between the two, observing, ever watchful.

They were similar in appearance but not too much so. Her features were delicate, soft, where his were sharp and harsh. But they were both blond, beautiful, eyes large and mouths full. She took after the mother, he after the father, Ben assumed.

Violet studied the office with a kind of indifferent interest while glancing at her brother every few moments. She barely spared Ben a glance. Her shyness made him squirm in his chair and bite his lip, pants tight in the crotch.

The doctor couldn't keep his heated gaze off of her, eyes roving over her small frame, pressed so close, so intimately, to a boy he knew would likely end up a murderer, if he wasn't already. He had it in him: the rage, bloodlust, a need to prove himself. He doubted she knew, suspected. Naive, innocent, she radiated it from her pours.

Tiny, unbound breasts, peaked and tipped pale pink under her loose shirt. Long neck and narrow collar bones. Her body was like that of a child. He imagined she had delicate, boney wrists, a slim waist. Ben undressed the girl with hungry eyes.

Her thighs were so pale, blue veins twisting and turning just underneath the skin. And she had likely thought she had covered herself, hidden her truth from him, but he could see it. The edges of red along the cuff of her shorts: cuts, scars, the lines of crusted blood. Her long sleeved shirt, worn in the middle of the summer, had been an early tipoff. But as she sat down the evidence had been bared to him.

She was troubled as well, could possibly do with therapy of her own. Private sessions, he smirked to himself, shook his head, shifted in his seat.

It didn't take long for her to catch him staring, ogling her body. Those doe-like round orbs questioned him without saying a word as she tucked her knees up to her chest, pushing further, deeper, into the leather sofa, attempting to disappear into the cushions. But all she did was show him her tight little ass in that position, made him wet his lips.

"Violet," smirked, ready to talk, to probe. "Tate has told me a little bit about his relationship with your mother. Can I ask you some questions about her?" She blinked. "Just to get a better, fuller, understanding," he added as explanation.

She looked first to Tate then shrugged, Ben made a note, "Okay."

"Wonderful."

"She's a cocksucker." She repeated the statement her brother had made during their first meeting, Ben's grin faltered as a dimple appeared beside Tate's mouth. "And she fucking hates me."

The doctor in him jumped on that. "Now I am sure your mother doesn't hate you, Violet." She snorted, shared a look of mutual understanding with the boy beside her as he flung his arm casually around her slight, rounded shoulders. "Sometimes it is just difficult for parents to understand their children. And mothers and daughters..." Her stare was withering, like ice, and his words evaporated. It was the closest she had come to emotion since arriving at the front door, when her youthful glee and her smiles faded under his welcome, and it was very nearly terrifying.

* * *

After the session was over all Ben could think about was that girl; picturing her lost eyes, small tits, bare, pink cunt. Her riding his face, his dick. He needed a cigarette before Vivien got home. To calm the fuck down. Because his wife certainly wouldn't be putting his raging erection to any use. He sighed, frustrated.

Staggering under the weight of it all he made his way to the kitchen, opened the backdoor, and leaned against the frame, lighting his smoke.

"He isn't helping me," the boy whined and Dr. Harmon's ears perked up. He recognized the voice as belonging to Tate.

"It's only been a few weeks," came the soothing reply. Violet.

His words grew harsher, lower, "And I saw the way he was looking at you."

There was silence and Ben knew he should put out his stick and get back in the house. He was eavesdropping, on a patient, as he spoke with his sister. Who Ben had been having rather depraved fantasies about only moments before. But they were on his property. Tate was not supposed to be there after sessions. And the girl seemed powerless against him.

He decided to listen just a little longer, make sure everything was okay, that they left before Viv pulled up.

The kids must have been just outside in the brick carport, perhaps ten or fifteen feet from him.

For a moment he thought that perhaps they had actually gone as the quiet stretched on but then he heard Violet breathe, "Tate," almost huskily and something slid into place, clicked in his mind, the psychiatrist in him wary.

They were an odd pair. He had made note of it. How Tate's arm had rested around his sister's shoulders throughout the session, her whispering in his ear, his fingers wrapped in the ends of her hair, her hand a calming presence on his leg when the boy got too agitated. They were close, that was clear, but how close he suddenly wondered.

* * *

Over the years the siblings had grown unaccustomed to hiding their relationship, their passion, their affection. They were perhaps out of practice with an audience. Or they had long before given up caring. They were already dead, there wasn't much anyone could do to them. They couldn't be punished, or worse, separated.

* * *

Poking his head around the edge of the door Ben got his answer. Tate had his mouth on Violet's neck, one hand around her lower back, bringing her pelvis into alignment with his own, the other was beside her head on the brick wall. Her fingers tugged his hair, ran down his back.

Tate dropped to his knees, right there, outside, in broad daylight, and lowered the zipper on his sister's shorts, pulling them to her ankles. She wasn't wearing underwear. Ben swallowed around the lump in his throat. Kicking one leg free, Violet stared down, licking her full, pink lips, as Tate lifted her leg over his shoulder and buried his mouth between her thighs.

"Oh, oh god," she stammered, head knocking back against the brick, fingers clenching, yanking, making the boy grunt. Her hips wriggled, turning in tiny circles, ass against the rough wall. "I need," she exhaled, eyes closed, "I need..."

Tate pulled back, his chin coated in her, shining in the sunlight that filtered through the ivy. "I always know what you need," she sighed again, using her hand, attempting to tug him back to her mound.

The boy glanced up then, over, and stared directly into Ben Harmon's eyes, smirking, before tracing a thumb along his sister's wet slit, making her buck and moan. The older man was frozen in place, locked in that dark, dread-inspiring gaze.

Tate held him, just long enough to let the doctor know what was his, what would always be his, then resumed his ministrations, tongue flicking out to lap at Violet's clit, as she fell apart above him, coming with a squeak and a gush.

"No one tastes like you, Vi," he hummed, lapping at the liquid smeared on her thighs.

"Guh," she responded, barely more than a groan, not opening her eyes. "Is he gone?"

Her brother peered over his shoulder, the door was closed. "Yes."

She sighed, sated and boneless, "Feel better now?"

"Mostly."

"Mostly?" his sister repeated, finally looking down at him. Tate stood, her eyes following his movements as he popped the button on his jeans, fingers at his zipper. "Oh," she smirked.

He was a possessive boy. He didn't share.

And Violet had never wanted him to.

* * *

A/N – Occasionally I allude to future chapters in current chapters. Things that have happened in the overarching story but have not been posted yet.


	7. Christmas, 1983

Warnings: Incest – if you don't like it, that's totally cool, just don't read, okay?

Tate & Violet, (this chapter) Rated - K+ (PG)

A/N – I apologize for not posting a chapter last week. I participated in the AHS Fic Exchange (Round 4), which was a super fun experience! And I really gave that fic all of my attention for awhile. So, while I am sure the fics will filter onto this site in the future, go over to the LJ community and check it out.

Disclaimer – I do not own American Horror Story. Only the idea for this fic is mine.

I have a tumblr now! Check it out – drollicpixie. tumblr. com

* * *

**Christmas, 1983**

They lay in the ambient light of the Christmas tree; Tate's head on the red velvet tree skirt, Violet's on her brother's shoulder, wrapping paper still spread across the carpet. _Christmas Don't Be Late_ by The Chipmunks was playing on the radio as they stared up at the ornaments, the glittering magic that was their Christmas tree.

That morning the floor had been piled high with presents. Santa had come. And Constance had forced them to stand, side by side, in their matching footie pajamas, for a picture before allowing them to dive into the heap of gifts. Violet had squirmed. Her mother had yelled. Tate scowled. Their father poured himself the first bourbon of the day. At eight in the morning.

The drinking, for both of their parents, had continued throughout the day until late in the evening when, drunk and rather merry, they danced and twirled their way up the large front staircase, leaving the children parked on the couch, watching television. Tate was seven, his sister five, almost six.

"Be good, you two!" Their father had hollered, laughing.

"Night, Daddy!" They had called in unison, adding belatedly, "Night, Mama," with far less enthusiasm.

"Merry Christmas," the woman slurred in return, hanging onto her husband's shoulders.

* * *

Mama had said that they could each invite a friend over in the morning, to play, until supper time. Violet had been considering which girl from her class she might invite. She often chose to spend her time with the boys, who were less stupid and more fun, but her mother had been quite insistent that she ask a girl, suggested that they could play dress-up. Violet had sighed but didn't argue.

"Who are you going to have over tomorrow?" she asked her brother.

"No one," he replied, not even thinking about it.

"Why not?" Violet turned onto her stomach and propped her chin up on her right hand, staring down at him as her legs kicked behind her.

"I have you to play with. Why would I invite anyone over?"

"Because you can't play dress-up with me and my friend," his sister tried to explain.

Tate looked at her strangely, "You aren't going to have anyone over either."

"I'm not?" she returned. "Did Mama say I couldn't?" Violet hadn't even really wanted to invite anyone over in the first place but her mother, being unfairly cruel to her, again, made unbidden tears well up in her eyes.

Tate shrugged. "I say you can't."

His sister boggled, "You say?" Her tears quickly dried up, replaced instead with anger. "You're not the boss of me, Tate Langdon." He always tried to be. But he wasn't. She was almost sure of it. So she held her head up, haughtily replying, "I can have over whoever I want and then, because you're a meanie, you can't play with us. We'll just ignore you all day!"

Something flashed across his face, something dark, and his sister shrank back a little. Tate, lightening fast, reached out and grasped Violet's wrist, yanking hard, surprising her and making her face crash to the floor. She looked up at him, chin wobbling, eyes wet again, as her brother informed her, voice tight, "I'm your friend, Violet. You don't need other friends." She swallowed. But then his eyes softened and he wiped the salt water tracks from her face with his fingers, saying with sincerity, "Don't be sad."

"That hurt," she sniffed.

"I'm sorry," Tate shook his head. "But you make me so mad sometimes. You make me be mean to you. I don't want to be."

She nodded. She knew it was true. She made Mama mad too.

Violet pulled herself up into a sitting position and Tate let her but he did not release his tight grip on her arm.

"I didn't give you your present," his sister told him, pouting, "and now you're being mean."

"You got me a present?" Tate asked, excited, letting go of her narrow wrist, his expression immediately changing into something pleasant.

Violet shrugged. She didn't have any money. There were only pennies and nickels in her piggy bank. She hadn't actually bought him anything. But she had been saving up something special for her brother for weeks.

"What is it?" he demanded, grinning broadly. "What did you get me?"

* * *

He had gifted her a drawing, secretly, the night prior, after they had returned, scurrying and silent as little mice, to Tate's room from peering over the bannister, around corners, to spy the mountain of presents Santa had left them.

The picture had been of Constance, done in a mixture of crayon and magic marker. Their mother hung from a tree, noose around her neck, X's for eyes, and vibrant red blood coating the front of her white dress. Violet had smiled when she saw it. Tate had smiled when he saw that his sister liked it.

She tucked the picture away in their copy of _The Grinch Who Stole Christmas_, keeping it safe, and away from Mama who wouldn't find it as funny as Violet and Tate had. Then she had curled into her brother, on his bed, like two kittens napping in a heap.

They awoke, huddled under the blankets in a warm cocoon, hours later, to weak sunlight and the smell of coffee, their mother singing along to Bing Crosby, their father stumbling, cursing, hungover, moving down the hallway. "Goddamn mother-fucking Christmas," he spat just beyond Tate's door. The children shared a look.

"Tate! Violet!" Constance yelled, "Get up, you lazy bums! It's Christmas! And I've got hot cakes on the griddle!"

Violet grinned at her brother, snuggling closer, stretching, as he rubbed his face in her long hair.

"Christmas!" his sister whispered in excitement.

"Presents!" Tate returned. And they both sprang out of bed, practically knocking one another over in their hurry to get out the door, down the hall, and to the stairs.

* * *

Tate got the toy gun he wanted, the dump truck, a baseball bat and a whole platoon of plastic army men. Violet got a baby doll with someone's name signed on it's butt, a Barbie, a pink cardboard trunk filled with bedazzled gowns, and a half dozen new dresses. Her sullen glares at her brother's presents were lost on her parents but not on Tate.

She had wanted a bow and arrow set. Mama had flatly refused. Violet was too young, too small, and a girl for Christ's sake. There would be no bow and arrows. Violet had been holding out hope for Santa but it appeared that Constance Langdon had gotten to him first.

After lunch, when the children had gone out to play, their parents pouring another drink, lighting another cigarette, Tate let his sister play with his gun. Let her chase him around the yard, shooting him dead. He also helped her cut off the Cabbage Patch doll's head with pruning shears. They tossed its cloth body behind the garage, into the dirt, and put the baby's face on a stick, planted it in the ground, and took turns pretending to shoot it like a target.

* * *

Tate was a good brother, Violet knew, even if he could be a jerk sometimes. And so she turned to face him, both sitting cross-legged beside the tree, his cheeks pink and eyes bright, the lights bouncing off of his sandy blond head. Tucking a strand of waist-length straight hair behind her ear, she leaned forward, and pressed her lips to his. Closing her eyes, Violet counted to five and pulled back and away.

"What was that for?" her brother asked in surprise. He had never been kissed by a girl before. Kissing was for old married people. And sure, Tate figured he would probably marry Violet one day, she was the coolest girl he knew, but he hadn't thought that people kissed before they grew up. He had liked it though.

His sister lifted a shoulder, "I gave you a kiss for Christmas. Like in Peter Pan." She smiled widely, bouncing a little.

Violet's teacher, Ms. Gordan, had read _Peter and Wendy_ to her class in the weeks before Christmas vacation and the kiss, giving of thimbles and acorns, had caught the young girl's imagination. She has never known that kisses could be gifted. And what a fun idea.

Listening to her teacher from her place on the classroom floor, Violet liked to think of Tate as Peter Pan, flying through the night sky, having sword fights in Neverland, never growing up. And she, Violet, was Wendy. But she would act less like a silly girl if she ever found herself with the Lost Boys. She would fight pirates and run and scream and climb trees; not mend clothes and live in a little house all by herself playing Mother.

Violet's favorite dreams were always of escape, of running away, of having adventures, and never having to listen to Mama scold her again.

But Wendy and Peter Pan had gotten kissing all wrong. Violet knew what a kiss was. Her father kissed her mother plenty. And that lady he worked with where he sold cars. She and Tate had seen Daddy kiss her too, on his desk, the lacy tops of the lady's stockings showing. She and her brother had giggled and pinched each other as they watched through the crack of the door to Daddy's office.

Tate said the lady was prettier than Mama; that was why Daddy was kissing her and Violet had huffed. Her brother whispered in her small ear that she was prettier than both women put together and she had grinned madly, Tate tugging on one long braid hanging over her shoulder.

* * *

"I want to give you a kiss too," Tate told her.

"But you already gave me a present," his sister pouted. She only had the one gift for him.

"I know," he shrugged. "But I'm your big brother. I can give you two."

That explanation made sense, placated her, "Okay," Violet said.

Her brother leaned in, repeating her earlier motion, and licked his lips. She copied him, eyes watching his face with rapt attention. Tate put his hand on Violet's leg, between her white knee sock and green tartan skirt, for balance, and touched his mouth to hers. After a few seconds he pulled back, studied her sweet face, inched forward, and did it again.

Tate kissed his sister; her mouth, her cheek, her nose, even her eyelids, until she laughed, giggles shaking her frame as she twisted away from him, shoving at his chest. He grinned at her, the gap where his front tooth belonged making him look silly. And then he was tickling her, fingers under her arms, digging at her ribs, as they rolled around on the floor shrieking with joy.

"What's all that fucking noise?" boomed a voice above.

Violet's eyes went wide as her brother put a finger to his lips. They both took a deep breath and called, "Nothing, Mama!"

"Well, quiet down for Christ's sake!"

The two children gazed at one another on the carpet, waiting to see if she would say anything else, would descend the stairs, drag them kicking and screaming to bed. But after that all was silent again.

Tate tucked his little sister into his side and settled them once more under the Christmas tree. They fell asleep there, surrounded by twinkling lights and glassy ornaments, music playing, toys cast aside until the morning when their games could recommence. Visions of sugar plums dancing in their heads.

* * *

From that day on Tate never could get his sister's kisses off his mind, could feel the ghost of her lips on his. It had made him happy. So very few things made him happy. He more often felt an unexplainable urge to scream, rage, punch and kick, feel blood on his hands, caked under his fingernails. But Violet's sugary, peppermint sticky mouth had briefly washed all of that away, made him feel lightheaded and funny, his heart racing. And he wanted more, greedy for that feeling again.

Tate couldn't wait for next Christmas.

* * *

**Merry Christmas! Happy Holidays!** - Erika


	8. Early 1992 & Late Spring, 1994 - Part 1

Warning: Incest – if you don't like it, that's totally cool, just don't read, okay? Teen pregnancy, abortion (discussed not described), suggestions of abuse. If you are uncomfortable with any of these things you may not want to read.

Tate & Violet, Rated – M/Explicit

Disclaimer – I do not own American Horror Story. Only the idea for this fic is mine.

I have a tumblr now! Check it out – drollicpixie. tumblr. com

* * *

**Early 1992/Late Spring, 1994 - Part I**

She pissed on three little sticks. They all glared back at her with the same answer.

When she had missed her period the month before Violet hadn't thought much of it. That happened sometimes. She had been getting the fucking thing for less than a year at that point, it was hardly regular, predictable.

But the second month she didn't bleed, when she found herself vomiting in the girl's bathroom for the third time in a week after biology, she bit her lip and pondered her predicament. On their walk home from school Violet asked her brother to buy her a test.

After the first, she sent him out for two more.

* * *

"Positive," she sighed, hands full, boxes, tests, instruction leaflets, as she trudged into his bedroom.

Tate rushed up, sweeping her into his arms with a grin. "We're going to have a baby, Violet."

"Tate," she breathed roughly against his throat. He pulled back, setting her down. "You know we can't. People," her eyes closed, the correct words just out of reach, "like us," she frowned.

"Why?" Her brother interrupted, his face falling, lip jutting out in a pout. His voice was so small, so innocent, nothing of the all-consuming, passionate yet brutal man he was becoming.

For Tate, the thought of his sister, round and full, a life he had put inside of her, growing in her tiny belly, made him unbearably hard, body thrumming with need. How could anyone be more at one with a person than making a child with them? A living being that was half you and half them.

But he didn't really understand what having a baby meant. Not really. Having a baby, not even to mention that fact that its genetic code would probably be all kinds of fucked up, was a huge deal. Babies required time and patience and care, undivided attention. Tate could barely stand to share Violet with her school work, with their mother, with the girl who had the locker below hers. She couldn't even imagine what would happen when the baby needed her and her brother had to be left to his own devices, to amuse himself.

Violet almost grinned at the thought of telling Tate that her breasts, larger and heavier than they had ever been before, weighed down with milk, were for the baby. Not for him. He would have a tantrum, rage and thunder, tugging at his hair. Her panties would be soaked watching him, red faced and furious. Violet loved him like that; possessive and mad. That thought was the only thing that could have possibly made the baby idea palatable.

But, in the end, nothing, not Tate's naïveté, her own soft spot for the idea of it, could convince Violet that having her brother's baby would be anything other than a horrific mistake. And she was only fourteen, for fuck's sake.

She stroked Tate's hair as she explained: it wouldn't work, it wasn't right. He nodded along as her fingers raked through his curls, breath hot on her neck, lips dragging along her collarbone. By the time he had his sister on her back, ankles over his shoulders, grunting and thrusting, sweat on his brow, her mouth open in a silent sob of pleasure as he spilled hot and sticky inside of her, Tate had forgotten all about the baby. Just as Violet knew he would. He had just wanted her to want it, a piece of him living, dwelling, inside of her.

Tate was a greedy, selfish boy. He had been his entire life and with his sister most of all. From their earliest years, going as far back as he could remember and then farther, he had coveted the attentions and affections of his little sister, demanding them all for himself. She was his. It was as simple as that. A baby would have just been one more way to show her, prove his point.

* * *

"Are you here for the procedure?" Violet nodded, gaze wary. "This way, please," He waved her on. "Has my wife seen to you?"

She hadn't. Violet didn't even fucking know what he meant, but she nodded again anyway. Before coming downstairs she had swallowed a fifth of bourbon and figured she was as prepared as she was ever going to be.

Climbing up onto the blood soaked table, staring at his dirty instruments, watching as he took a hit of ether, Violet closed her eyes, grimacing, and prayed to a god she didn't believe in, to anything, anyone, who would listen.

"Now, if you will just spread your legs…" Her knees knocked, shaking.

"Violet?" Her mother's voice rang out from the top of the stairs.

"Charles?" Nora called from deeper within the basement.

Violet shared a bewildered, frightened glanced with the ether-soaked ghost doctor.

"Oh dear," he touched her arm. "You had better go. I told my wife no more girls."

She swallowed, didn't need to be told twice, and scampered up the stairs, panic flooding her system. She couldn't believe she had almost let Dr. Charles Montgomery give her an abortion. He had been dead for nearly seventy years.

"What on earth were you doing in that filthy basement?"

And that was when she broke down, told her mother, begged Constance to take her to a clinic. Violet refused to say who the father of her baby was, claimed not to know, and received a slap across the face that sent her head spinning, made her bite down on her lip, spitting blood.

She sat through the lecture, the screaming, the berating, as Tate lingered in the stairwell slamming his head into the wall over and over trying to drown out his mother's words: slut, whore, harlot, bitch, worthless.

It was a battle Violet had insisted he let her fight alone.

* * *

Tate squatted in the basement, rocking, hands in his hair, as he sobbed his disappointment to Nora.

"A baby?" She asked, "My baby?"

"No. It was my baby. Mine and hers."

Drying her eyes on an ever pristine white embroidered handkerchief, the woman rested a hand on the boys head. "There, there," she shushed, "it's alright. There will be more babies." Nora's eyes shimmered, watery in the dim light.

"There will be?" He sniffed.

"You just wait and see," she smiled weakly. Tate knew she was talking more to herself than she was to him.

* * *

Violet's pregnancy did not change her brother's attitude toward, or love of, filling her up with cum. Leaving his sticky wet seed deep inside her, slowly oozing out, reminding her for hours what they had done. He pumped his sister full of jizz and made her lie on the bed, legs spread, knees up on her chest, so he could stare at the thick white juice as it leaked from her cunt, coated her, stuck to her thighs with sticky tendrils.

Sometimes he buried his face against her and cleaned her with his tongue. Once he took a picture with the family Polaroid, Violet nervous, biting her lip, eyes huge as she watched him, Tate's semen bubbling out of her bare slit. He kept that picture in his pillow case, slept with his face pressed to it every night, dreaming of her ripe, lush body.

Mostly, Tate got so turned on looking at his cum spilling out of his sister, soaking the sheets, than he found he just needed to fuck her wet hole again, pound and slosh through his own mess, and make another deposit. Violet never argued.

* * *

Violet wanted to start taking birth control pills after the abortion but her mother strictly forbade it; told her she was already a little slut and she certainly was not going to assist her in her sinful fornication.

"Next time," she seethed, "keep your fucking legs closed." Constance's eyes were narrow, flinty slits, "Not whore it out to some boy whose name you never bothered to learn. Goddamn, little tramp."

"Mama..."

"Don't you Mama me, Violet Langdon," she shook her head with disgust. "I didn't raise you to be some hussy who gives it out to any boy with a nice word for you. Letting them ride you like some merry-go-round, leaving you in a condition. Disgraceful!" And with that she quit the room, stormed down the hall.

Returning to Tate, his sister had stroked his red seething face, thumb running along his trembling lip, and whispered, "It's you. It's only you."

"Violet," his tone was like shattered glass, on edge and spiteful.

"Only you," she repeated, lips at his ear as she took Tate's hand and lead him upstairs to his room, their mother slamming the front door as she left.

The clinic, thankfully, was happy to provide a prescription even without her mother's knowledge or consent. They congratulated Violet on her initiative. And Constance, unbeknownst to her, paid for the pills anyway. Her son slipping twenties from her purse whenever she was too drunk to notice.

* * *

The next time the stick showed a pink plus sign Violet made an appointment and went in on her own. She was sixteen and didn't need Constance to sign the forms anymore. And honestly, she was afraid the old bitch would make her keep the baby.

She rode the bus there and they called her a taxi when no one arrived to give her a ride home, tossing pitying glances at her as she waited, rumpled and alone in her chair, loose black leggings, too large black flannel shirt, combat boots untied. Her face was gaunt, white as a sheet, purple hollows under her bloodshot eyes. She had looked like that when she arrived though so they saw no reason to keep her.

Violet didn't tell Tate about the second abortion. He had already been dead for three days when she found out she was pregnant.

At the funeral they all commented on how pale she was, how difficult the whole ordeal must have been on her, and she sighed, nodded her head, legs weak. They had waited nearly three weeks for Tate's body to be returned to them. Prior to that it had been considered evidence, or something, by the police. Then there was the drama of finding a cemetery willing to take him; her brother was a celebrity of sorts, but not the kind anyone wanted.

* * *

"Violet Langdon!" Constance hissed, "Get back here this instant!" But the girl was halfway up the stairs, floating away on a mixture of prescription pills and vodka, a hand pressed against her empty womb. Their guests chattered on in the background ignorant of her mother's displeasure, Violet's loathing for her. Murderer.

"I just need to lie down, Mama," she whispered, lost in a mire of bleak doom.

Cousin Hattie, the crazy cunt, made a beeline for Constance then and Violet was forgotten as the grieving mother worked up some tears, put on her act, and accepted a hug.

In her room, door closed, Violet could think of nothing but the bottle of Valium stashed under her mattress, darkness and peace, of the chill that had settled into her bones and the loneliness that was eating her alive.

She sighed shakily, biting a knuckle to keep from sobbing, and let herself slide down the bedroom door to the floor. She had barely stepped a foot into her room since that day, preferring to spend her time in Tate's, curled up on his bed, wrapped in his clothes, razor blade dragging along the blue veins of her wrists.

* * *

Tate had watched her as she tried, largely failing, to sleep. It had been days, weeks, since she had appeared anything other than haggard, bone tired, bruised and bleeding. The ladder-rungs of slash marks climbed up her wrists to her forearms, her knees to her groin, blood soaking his sheets, her sheets, coating the white porcelain of their shared bathroom, red blooming on her anemic flesh. The slashes were deeper, more aggressive, dangerous, than anything he had seen her do in the past. He would chew his lip, tears tracking down his cheeks much like the blood that ran down his chest and continually pooled at his feet from the bullet holes that never quite managed to close.

The nights were long and dark as she tossed and turned, Tate trying to stay back, away, when all he wanted was to climb into the bed beside his sister and hold her. On the worst of them Tate would watch as Violet slithered from within his bedclothes, body twisting, almost writhing, as she fell to the floor, crawling to the place where he breathed his last, where he bled out and died. There she would bring her knees to her chest, arms coming around herself, and rock, as if she were trying to hold herself together so that she wouldn't literally fall apart. Her cheek pressed into the professionally cleaned boards, wet gasps escaping her. Violet sounded as though she were dying too.

* * *

"Violet," he slunk toward her, unable to bear it, her misery, his longing, their separation, for another moment. His mouth was on her ear, his fingers on her thighs, nudging them apart so he could slip between.

"Tate," she breathed, knowing it was a dream, a fantasy.

"Open your eyes."

She shook her head.

"Please," her brother's voice whined.

He kissed her, tongue hot and real in her mouth. The shutters baring him from those hazel orbs were immediately lifted. He was there, his shirt, the same one he died in, was wet and riddled with bullet holes. But he was her Tate, blond hair falling into his eyes, freckle on the very tip of his nose. "How?" She inhaled sharply.

"I missed you," he sighed against her lips, the taste of her making him immediately hard.

Violet was under him, knees on other side of his torso, slathered red with his blood, as it soaked into her funeral garb. But she didn't, couldn't, care, not when he was so very real, so very there, in her arms, above her, with her again.

"Tate," she ghosted along his cheek, lips pressing butterfly kisses against his jawline. "Oh, Tate."

"Violet," he returned, sucking violently at her pulse point, drawing her flesh into his mouth, consuming her, groaning desperately.

"Need you," his sister gasped, eyes shining with unshed tears. "Please, please," she begged, sifting beneath him, hips rolling up to meet his as his cock nudged that hot heat between her thighs.


End file.
